


Homecoming

by Last of the War Boys (MintSharpie)



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintSharpie/pseuds/Last%20of%20the%20War%20Boys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I live. I die. I live again.</p><p>I come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

When he came back, he thought hadn’t made it.

There were no more flaming skulls, no rabid hordes of half-rotten bodies staggering on splinter-thin legs. There were no more black-and-white warriors or empty stretches of sand. There was life. There was green. There was _water_.

The only possible explanation was that he must be dead. This must be Valhalla.

But if that were so, why did he still hurt so bad?

He coaxed his ruined excuse for a car to limp just a little farther, its engine sputtering, haphazard joins between scavenged parts groaning dangerously. As he approached the Citadel he could feel that his body was in the same shape as his vehicle, ready to give out at any moment. Thank Joe it wasn’t his driving leg that was broken… Wait, no, damn Joe. Thank somebody else instead.

A cry went up as he approached, and he was forced to stop by a small platoon of people who rushed in to block the road. They were skinny and ragged, and would pose no threat to him under normal circumstances, but he was near death and they were armed with brutal-looking guns. A warning shot threw dust into the air just in front of his tires. He raised one hand in a gesture of peace, and with the other cut the engine. The sound that came from it meant it would never start again.

With great difficulty he heaved his bad leg out of the doorless car, stifling a cry of pain as bone shifted despite his crude attempt at a splint. Keeping one hand up at all times, he levered himself to a standing position. The world spun, fuzzy in his sun-scoured eyes, and he leaned heavily on the seatback to keep from falling down. When the worst of the dizziness passed he reached for the charred stub of a spear to use as a walking stick, and dragged himself a few excruciating steps forward.

“I am – ” he began, but the words didn’t make it past his dust-caked throat. He coughed, sending lances of fire through his broken ribs, and tried again. “I am Nux!” he croaked, as loudly as he could. “Please… help me…”

Two of the gunbearers walked slowly up to him. One kept him covered while the other clumsily searched him, finding the two pistols and the combat knife in his pockets but making his leg scream in the process. He whimpered and clung desperately to his staff until the agony faded from his vision.

“Why d’you think we’d help you?” the guard asked suspiciously. “Where’d you come from?”

“Here,” Nux rasped. “I come from here. I rode with Furiosa to the green place. I died for her on the Fury Road. Now I live again.”

The two sentries looked him up and down, then whispered rapidly to each other. Nux shifted with a wince, straining to stay conscious for long enough to get inside. He must’ve looked as harmless as he was, because a moment later the whole passel of watchmen had surrounded him and lifted him bodily into the air. He choked back a scream as they bore him quickly into the complex; then one of them touched his ribs in just the wrong way, and the world went black.

* * *

 

He woke to a feeling he’d never experienced before. There was still pain, yes, but something cool and… what was the word? Wet. Something cool and wet was slowly running up and down his torso, from Larry and Barry all the way to his thigh and back again. The… whatever it was… faltered as he stirred, rolling his head slightly and grimacing at the aches still wracking his body. Then a hand touched his cheek, and a sweet, familiar voice reached his ears.

“Nux?”

The sound gave him the energy he needed to open his eyes, fast and sudden as a flare gun, but it was difficult to see. Images swirled and wavered in his vision, a muddy vortex of browns and blues – and one very particular shade of red. He clung to it, brought all his will to focus on it, until at last her face coalesced from the darkness.

“Capable,” he whispered, and his plague-withered heart felt ready to burst.

Her hand wasn’t as smooth and soft as he remembered. There were cuts and callouses on the fingers that caressed his face and traced water across the half-healed burns on his chest. She wasn’t dressed in angel white anymore, either; now she wore the leathers of a warrior, although a narrow band of pale cloth was tied around her arm like a memory.

Oh, she was beautiful.

“You came back,” she murmured, eyes shining.

He tentatively reached out to her; she took his hand and held it to her lips, resting there against his skin. The warmth spread through his blood, and made his words come out as a whisper.

“I did.”


End file.
